


Tangled Web of Light

by centrumLumina (centreoftheselights)



Series: Bubblebound [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ashen Romance, Blue Bubble, Bubblebound, Caliginous Romance, Dream Bubble, F/F, Flashback, Flushed Romance, Love Triangle, Pale Romance, Quadrant Confusion, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centreoftheselights/pseuds/centrumLumina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months have passed since the girls of Homestuck were trapped together. Romance has begun to blossom, but not in the ways that any of them expected. Over the course of one day, four girls reflect on the romances which entangle them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clubs

**Author's Note:**

> Bubblebound is an AU in which everyone met up via dream bubbles immediately after EOA5, but the reunion was interrupted by Horrorterror intervention. Everyone was brought back to life, physically aged up to sixteen, and forcibly confined within two gender-segregated dream bubbles for the duration of their three-year journey.

As far as the eye can see, there is a blue expanse. From the correct point of view, it appears infinitely vast and indifferent, only the faintest shimmering of light on the surface revealing its surprisingly changeable nature. Something about it seems forbidding – its stillness is almost menacing. It is not a thing which invites contact.

In the midst of this, there is an island – small but verdant, and all around accompanied by shafts of bright light which pierce the great ocean like arrows in its flesh.

It is on this island that a girl stands alone, lost in the contemplation of her past. The shade her skin glows is the exact match of the rays which surround her sanctuary.

The girl has come here seeking solitude – a desire she was always aware would not be respected for long. She hears the soft sound of wing beats and does not turn around. She knows who visits her, and why.

But Kanaya is not really in the mood.

“I got your note.”

Even the words do not pull Kanaya’s gaze from the vista before her. If she turns around, she knows what she will see: an unwanted supplicant for her time and attention, bearing a note in her hand but not by her pen. She prefers what lies before her: a time and a place once shared with a loved one lost. Today, she seeks melancholy; this visitant is intruding upon her recollections.

“It isn’t mine,” she says, a little sharply.

“ _Obviously_.” The response is so fast that Kanaya doubts her own ability to judge its veracity. If the news came as a surprise, that surprise has been well masked – but then, it always is. “But I wouldn’t want to frustr _ate_ her planning, would I?”

Kanaya’s rebuke has fallen flat, and she knows she will get no peace now – but, as happens so frequently nowadays, her emotions have shifted, and her desires with them. All is takes is the sound of that faintly stressed syllable, the knowledge that even _aloud_ the typing quirk is in full force – and her irritation is swept away, her pensive mood igniting into a new certainty.

Suddenly, this is precisely what she wants.

Kanaya Maryam spins on her heel and slaps Vriska Serket hard across the face.

 

The days immediately following the girls’ arrival in what has become known, by collective agreement, as ‘The Bubble’, were a time of extreme emotions. Utmost among these was confusion, as the group struggled to learn the mysterious rules governing their new environment, but sorrow, fear and anxiety were also endemic.

In seeking a way to come to terms with her loss, Kanaya sought to distance herself from the group. At least at first, this was not difficult to arrange. It was easy to slip away when the others were distracted – often, they were not there at all. She was not alone in seeking solace in solitude. It became habit to wander alone, sculpting familiar scenes from her memories, aching at the phantom pain of possibilities ripped away from her.

Until Vriska had come for her.

“Are you planning to mope for the next three years?”

The sound of her voice made Kanaya jump. She was remembering the desert, and hadn’t thought anyone could sneak up on her, even with the dunes blocking her view. If someone approached, their memories began to bleed into hers – heralding unfamiliar vegetation from the humans’ idea of deserts, or the even more obvious patch of nighttime which haunted her fellow trolls.

But the sky was still bright, and Vriska was at her side, unflinching.

“If I wanted company I would seek it,” Kanaya had told her.

“You’ve been gone for nearly two nights.”

Kanaya wondered how she could tell. Time had ceased to pass – there were no nights or days but those imagined into being by the Bubble’s occupants. All the clocks had stopped. Aradia was the only accurate measure of the not-time passing, although Jade could provide an estimate.

Kanaya knew that if she had managed to reach god tier, she might have had some hope of being useful to the situation.

“Are you planning on coming back?”

Kanaya didn’t know what was worse – the crushing emptiness of the desert, lending its vast weight to the regrets she dragged with her, or the piercing pains of company, with its sharp reminders of those who should still be among them, and the horrible stabs of guilt which resulted in leaving her memories behind her, even for a moment.

“Or are you going to pull a Nepeta?”

Of course, Vriska was more than willing to set off Kanaya’s guilt with a fierce burn of shame. Nepeta had to be suffering more than any of them – if she had even made it safely into The Bubble in the first place. No-one had caught sight of her since they had arrived – but in such an empathetic environment, that could equally mean she didn’t want to be found.

Nepeta was supposed to be her friend, but Kanaya had been too blinded by her own worries to even notice she was missing – that had been left to Terezi. It had taken a blind girl to see what Kanaya could not, and while it was hardly the first example of such an occurrence, not one of her many prior oversights had stung her so deeply.

Bile rose in Kanaya’s throat. Tears pricked in her eyes. She could feel her blood rushing, and knew that beneath the impermeable sheen of light, her cheeks were streaked with jade. She couldn’t stand being _watched_ like this, knowing that Vriska knew all of her failings and her weaknesses, and judged her lesser for this pain, when Vriska herself had so much more to be shameful of.

She slapped Vriska as hard as she could across the face.

Vriska didn’t flinch. She barely shook from the blow. She just stood there, continuing to stare at Kanaya, as an angry cerulean handprint coloured her cheek. Kanaya did not know what Vriska was thinking, or what she would do – she only knew that she had said as much as she could, and now she would not be the first to look away.

The kiss took her entirely by surprise.

 

Vriska’s answering slap is nothing unexpected. Kanaya could dodge it, but rather than break her focus she chooses to absorb the sting of pain and uses it to feed her anger. The two girls begin to circle each other slowly, out of reach for the time being, but neither willing – or able – to take their eyes off the other.

Kanaya’s lipstick waits in her strife deck, but she does not draw it. This is not a strife – this is something far more personal, and she has no interest in complicating matters with chainsaws and dice. But nor should she remain unarmed.

Kanaya imagines a dagger into her hands, short and plain but razor sharp. A few paces away, the air ripples around Vriska’s open palms, and twin blades solidify there. Vriska’s weapons of choice are longer and more ornate, to the point of ostentation – but that does not blunt them in the slightest.

Both parties properly armed, the battle commences.

“LORAF agaaaaaaaain?” Vriska’s smirk strikes the first blow. “Are you _still_ pining after our ‘fearless leader’? When are you going to accept it? He’s gone. For good!”

 “Yes, this disease we call friendship is a dreadful affliction. It’s lucky you’re immune.”

A simple parry, a strike returned. For now, they will stick to their routine jabs, needling at each other, pacing out a circle of separation. It will not be long before one of them finds a blow which could not be answered by words alone.

 “Don’t you get tired of moping on the same old island all day?” Vriska makes the first attempt. “It’s so _bright_ here.”

Kanaya blinks pointedly. “You realise I am what is commonly referred to as a creature of lightness?”

“Exactly! Stereotypes are booooooooring.” Vriska laughs derisively.

“If you mind so much, feel free to imagine it darker.” Kanaya pauses mid-step, glancing at the sky for the change she knows would not come. “But you won’t. You never do.”

Vriska scowls. “Worrying that I’m going to usurp your crown as Queen of the Day?”

Kanaya has struck a nerve.

“I was just wondering. What is your excuse?”

Vriska tosses her hair and gestures theatrically to her hoodie. “I am Hero of Light, you know.”

“The Thief of it.” Kanaya corrects. “But in here, there’s no need to steal _anything_ , is there?”

Vriska smiles slyly. “Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. There’s always something. Time. Space. A kiss.”

“None of which are your area of expertise.”

A roll of the eyes. “Well that’s why I have to steal them.”

Vriska pauses dramatically, and Kanaya can see she has thought of something. She does not relish the barb – to be the one stung into violence is to admit, on some level, defeat – but she is weary of this banter. She wants something more.

Vriska keeps her waiting several seconds longer than is necessary. “Perhaps I could even steal a life.”

Kanaya almost laughs outright. “You might be able to take one, but you wouldn’t know the first thing about _keeping_ a life.”

“Yet if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t have one at all.”

 

Kanaya pushed Vriska away from her without even thinking about it, an automatic response of muscle and bone to an event which had smashed through her every thought like the tidal wave which had eviscerated LORAF, leaving nothing but scattered debris. Everything was blank and loud and roaring in her ears, and there was nothing to cling to against the storm within.

Vriska did not struggle. She did not push forward, greedily taking more than was given. At the first touch of pressure she moved away, allowing Kanaya distance to process.

Kanaya had her space again. Her feet found solid ground, and from the upheaval a new island had emerged, a single idea which grounded her utterly.

Vriska had actually backed off.

And now she waited, watching anxiously from several paces’ away, and there was something in her which Kanaya had never seen before.

“Come back with me?”

Vulnerability.

It was…

“Of course.”

Pitiful.

 

Thinking about that day makes Kanaya shake, and the ground shakes with her. The sea begins to churn, waves building on the horizon and leaping up the beaches on all sides as, in the distance, an inferno larger than they had ever imagined possible is born anew.

Vriska tosses her hair again, and she does not need to speak a word to let Kanaya know that she has won their verbal battle.

There is only one choice remaining.

Knife flashing in her hands, Kanaya leaps.

 

They returned together, shyly holding hands, tender and flushed. Both were somewhat self-conscious of the new quadrant – and self-conscious was undoubtedly the correct term, for there were precious few others to be conscious of. Kanaya returned to discover their nominal population of eight halved, and those few remaining engaged in other interests. It was more than possible to spend days together and never see another soul, and that, for the most part, was how they liked it.

But something itched at Kanaya.

This was what she had wanted for so long. She had spent sweeps dreaming of this, and now it was coming true.

Except that was a total lie.

When she had dreamed, it hadn’t been of this. Of course, reality rarely lives up to any imagining, but she knew that there was something out of place – no, something seriously wrong.

Vriska _grated_.

Her so-called matesprit scraped along Kanaya’s every nerve like steel on bone. Everything bristled at her – the histrionics, the narcissism, even the voice, jeering and cackling away at her all day. She wondered briefly if it was just an adjustment, a reconciling of online persona to real, living troll – but it ran deeper than that. Once, she had found the eights endearing – now they burned hot lines of white fire through every synapse.

Kanaya hated Vriska Serket with a passion she could barely contain.

It was killing her.

Vriska was flushed. They couldn’t switch quadrants now, and to leave Vriska entirely would mean retreating again into total solitude. It was not unheard of for concupiscent quadrants to spontaneously morph, from caliginous to flushed or vice versa.

Kanaya waited, hoped, and fought the urge to bite down each and every time they kissed.

But the game had changed her, and she could not wait forever.

She did not recall what petty argument finally provoked her, but after weeks of tension she finally drew her lipstick, slicing viciously at Vriska with the whirling blade. Vriska dodged, but not fast enough, and a streak of blue trickled from a long tear on her bicep.

Kanaya froze, horrified and repulsed by the sight of the damage she had done. How could she have…? She had believed herself caliginous, but when it came to it, she could not bear to see Vriska’s wince of pain, to smell the sickening sweetness of her blood. She had entirely misinterpreted her own heart, and damaged her matespritship, possibly irreparably. She gasped, words without voice – “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

After a long moment, Vriska met her eyes, and Kanaya filled with hope. She was not running away. There was time to fix this. As Vriska took a slow step forward, put her arms around her, trailed the blood she had spilt along her clothes, Kanaya knew she did not deserve such a forgiving girlfriend.

Then Vriska’s teeth sank into her lip.

Kanaya cried out in shock and pain, teeth clashing awkwardly against her once-no-more black crush’s, and stumbled backwards, tripping over her own dress in her efforts to abscond as far away as possible.

Everything had fallen apart.

 

They come together in a violent clash of metal on metal, their earlier stillness metamorphosing into a flurry of slashes and stabs. The two girls twist and turn around each other, their bodies never more than a blade’s length apart, and all around them the weather grows harsher. The inhospitable conditions shear them, opening up an edge of desperation, rough and unworn.

The gale howls, and a spray of brine launched from a particularly large swell sweeps into them, and is ignored – but, perhaps, for a sharp intake of breath lost among the clamour of the storm. As the water drains back to the sea, it trails a mural of jade and cerulean, staining the pale sediment beneath with the sacrifice of a dozen shallow wounds.

Kanaya cannot see; her eyes are squeezed shut against the sting of the wind. She cannot hear a sound above the raging tempest. But, blinded and deafened, she fights on. What does she need eyes for? She has the judder of Vriska’s blade on her own, the biting pain of a blow undefended, and, above all in this frigid place, warmth: the ever-present heat of rage and passion, breath and blood.

Kanaya Maryam knows Vriska Serket.

She knows what she has to do.

 

Kanaya knew what they had to do.

She was not able to abscond for long. Within hours, they were face to face again, and Kanaya could feel her heart racing with anxiety. If her feelings could shift at any moment, how could she trust herself to do the right thing?

But then, she had been friends with Karkat for a long time, and she had learned more about romance than she thought she would ever need to know. It wasn’t like she was breaking new ground here. A million trolls had felt this way before.

Just because they were all dead did not invalidate their methods.

“We need an auspistice.”

Vriska snorted in derision. “Try again, and this time use your brain.”

“We are flipping quadrants. This is the solution.”

Vriska laughed. “And what if I don’t want to be ashen with you?”

“Then you’ll have to get over it,” Kanaya snapped.

Vriska’s face fell, and Kanaya felt a pang of regret. Sometimes, she pitied Vriska more than anything. But sometimes just wasn’t enough.

“There is such as thing as auspisticised kismeses, you know.” She reached out and touched Vriska’s arm.

Vriska snatched it back. “Who?”

“Who do you think? Fate has not burdened us with an excess of options.”

Vriska nodded grimly, and together, they headed towards the house where she was most often found.

Everything after that had been strange and new. Kanaya had played auspistice before, but this side of it was different. To surrender so much, and receive so little in return. But, day by day, it stabilised them. The pity faded, and the passion remained.

And now…

 

Now they are closer than ever, barely a hand’s width between them, and as Vriska slashes at her belly a twist of Kanaya’s dagger finally sends first one, then both, of the girl’s blades clattering to the ground.

Kanaya kicks them away quickly, throwing her own over her shoulder for good measure. Vriska takes advantage of her momentary distraction to grab at her, but skin soaked in brine and sweat and blood gives her no purchase, and the most either can do is to grasp at the other, sinking claws into backs, trying at once to push away and to draw closer.

The howling winds drop, and the sea begins to calm as the salt-filled sprays are replaced by the gentle patter of rain.

Neither girl notices. They are pressed together now, bodies entwined, blood intermingled. Kanaya feels Vriska’s breath on her cheek as their faces are drawn together.

“Fuck you,” Vriska whispers, and then their mouths are mingled in a clash of teeth on flesh.

Bleeding and tasting blood. Skin-soaked and bathed in light.

Kanaya Maryam has never felt so alive.


	2. Spades

The nature of the malleable, of that which is shaped by thought and memory and desire, is precisely as complex and changeable as its occupants believe it to be. To predict its behaviour is near impossible, and that hair’s breadth of a chance may be closed completely by any attempt to apply the familiar logic of the physical world. The usual rules lose all relevancy.

The sky here is broad and bright, and one prone to such thinking is likely to ponder this fact. By now, all inhabitants are aware of the limits of their location, the most painful and everpresent of which is the inescapable seal dividing them from freedom and friends alike. To walk too far, to fly too high, is to be confronted by the immutable, impassable proof.

But the sky itself pays no heed to such limitations. It is formed of a dream of the infinite, of misty mornings and scarlet sunsets, and most of all of a blue expanse neither glittering nor galvanised, but serenely scattered with silent, silver stars. And so it shall remain, at least for so long as it is remembered such.

Within this comforting illusion, a girl stands in the air, illumined and illict. Although flight is not her innate ability, it has become her instinct, and there is a dancer’s grace in the way she steps softly onto the sand, surrendering herself once more to the earth’s encompassing embrace.

She should not be here. Her trespass is etched in trepidation, and for the rarest of moments she hesitates. Though she yet holds no doubts as to her destination, she must consider her approach cautiously.

She shall not be seen.

The fabric of her confinement is eager to orient her footfalls, providing an incessant tug towards the gravity of her goal.

This is utterly unnecessary.

Nearby, a battle is soon to shall have begun. This she knows absolutely, believes unquestioningly, although she cannot fathom the forces which have imparted her insight. It is a war she wishes to witness.

Irksome, then, to know as absolutely that her presence is fated to cause calamity.

A choice was made, a determination set. It is not this portent which gives her pause. Seeing without sight lends her now a truer reason to wait a while on these silent sands, and she is caught in the rising light of new knowledge.

In this place, the Seer of Light is surrounded by radiance. And yet…

A darkness approaches.

 

In the first moments after their entrapment was discovered – and it has become her habit now to think of any such time as moments, were it once called minutes or months – in those very first moments, there was nothing to Rose Lalonde but confusion.

She would not believe such even herself, later, and she was to superimpose upon that memory every emotion she has felt in moments since, but in truth she would always know there is only so much one heart can hold. As that first long moment stretched out into an eternity, Rose could comprehend only that something vital had been lost to her, and precious little remained.

Jade.

The eight girls had all clung to each other for those initial moments, but there was something to be said for human comfort. With the trolls, Rose had shared one day – an undeniably eventful one, but nevertheless, a single day. With Jade, she had shared a universe.

To build a new life, one must first locate a foundation.

Moments later, Rose found herself once more drawn into the forest.

“Come away.”

Bathed in the boundary’s blue, Jade looked like midnight, unfathomable mystery. Rose was reluctant to step into that strange light, to watch her skin grow ghostly and her amber hood wash suddenly violet – but she approached anyway, as she always had before.

A tear of frustration glittered cerulean on Jade’s cheek.

“There’s nothing we can do.”

A familiar mantra, half-believed. Jade had plumbed the depths of her abilities for an answer and returned nought. No, Rose knew that any answer the pair could offer would be hers alone, her responsibility to seek out and reveal. But thus far, she sought this solution blind.

Jade did not speak, and Rose knew there was little left to say. They had lived this moment a thousand times before – Jade drawn to attempt the impossible, and Rose hopeful to lead her home. Guilt had laid down these tracks, and each iteration sank them further into the familiar routines of their grief.

“I’m leaving.”

Rose could not have been more hurt if Jade had slapped her. She froze, forcing her expression to remain neutral, her lips not to gasp “why?” She already knew why, and she would not wound her friend with pretence otherwise.

But Rose had never been as skilled at impassivity as her ectobrother. Her cheeks flushed, glowing a soft lavender, and she could not look at Jade.

Jade, for her part, still stared solemnly into the unseen void.

“Tomorrow,” she elaborated, after a moment’s pause. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Only then did she turn to Rose, placing a gentle hand on the other girl’s arm. Rose turned to face her, wishing she had some way to tear her eyes from the grim expression.

“I have to _try_.” There was an edge of desperation in Jade’s voice, familiarity made haunting by way of its former strangeness.

Sooner or later, when one builds a castle out of sand, it is bound to wash away.

“I understand.” And Rose did, more than Jade would ever know – and at the same time, not at all.

 

Rose shuts her eyes, listening to the rush of surf on shore.

Although the gifts of her god tier have been barely revealed to her, they have granted her some privileges. To retreat beneath her lids, to empty her mind, is to be revealed of a world of probabilities, a shimmering knot of interactions and outcomes.

Revelation is not comprehension, and much of this cat’s cradle seems to her a vague and inscrutable snarl, evocative of some half-finished yarn project once chanced upon by a playful feline.

It is a rare stretch whose intended pattern can be discerned, but in an infinite tangle rare patches can quite often be found. It is from one such patch that Rose, her vision still shrouded in darkness, observes her companion’s approach.

By the time she hears the quiet rippling of water behind her, she already knows what sight will greet her if she turns: a troll girl, smiling and barefoot in the waves, her long, wind-tousled hair disappearing into the constant halo of darkness which surrounds her, and sprawls shadows across the beach to tangle and snarl against the light.

Knowing thus, Rose does not bother to turn, although she does open her eyes, and permits herself a brief smile in appreciation of small ironies.

“Aradia. You’re late.”

 

Little was said before Jade’s departure. Methods of navigation or contact had been rendered both inaccessible and redundant; whenever she wished to, Jade would find her way back. There was no need for ‘come with me’ or ‘don’t follow me’ – not here, not now.

Neither said the word ‘goodbye.’

It was only after her friend’s silhouette had blurred against the horizon that Rose made her decision. Her closest friend had departed, in order to attempt feats that even her prodigious vocabulary could not put name to.

In her absence, the least that Rose could do was rebuild.

She could form new friendships. In her shared isolation, she had seen little of the trolls who had become her neighbours. She would –

A chime rang out.

Apparently, the first tentative steps towards social well-adjustment would have to wait until she had first investigated the unexpected use of her doorbell.

She did not know who she had been expecting, but she was certain it had not been Aradia Megido. She had barely spoken to the troll, and while their exchanges had been for the most part courteous they were hardly amicable. There was something unsettling about the girl’s constant cheer, especially while all around her mourned.

“This is a surprise. Please, come inside.”

Rose wished she knew enough of troll culture to offer the equivalent of a refreshing beverage, even if to do so was an exercise in futility given their current provision.

“This is a lovely house,” Aradia informed her. “Your mother’s?”

“More or less.” Years of memories held strong sway, especially when one sought stability. Jade had provided her own reminiscence of architecture, but her influence was already receding.

“I hope you won’t mind a few changes?”

“Not at all,” Rose assured her, although in fact the trespass nettled her. Still, she supposed, the consequence of any such visitation was alteration – that was the nature of the environment, and it was respectful of the troll to at least apologise for those revisions she could not help but make.

“I shouldn’t need much room, and there’s plenty of space. Perhaps one of the rooms upstairs?”

Rose paused. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Well, I can’t put a recuperacoon in here, it’ll just be in the way!”

That, Rose understood well enough. Her confusion writhed and twisted, becoming mixed with horror.

“You intend us to cohabit.”

Aradia’s smile shrank slightly. “I assumed that – at least until Jade returns – you were in the market for a roommate?”

The show of disappointment repressed was absolute.

“Apologies. I did not intend to imply a rejection of the offer, I merely desired clarification.”

“No, I –“ Aradia got to her feet. “I was being too eager again. You clearly want to be alone. I should go.”

 “Please don’t,” Rose asked. “I didn’t intend to –“

“I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.” The smile slipped away briefly, and upon its return it was yet again smaller.

Rose could see only one option remaining.

“I would love to share my home with you.”

Aradia’s eyes lit up. “Really? I wouldn’t –“

“I insist.”

The smile returned in its full glory, and Rose looked upon her newfound housemate with similarly novel respect.

She knew when she had been masterfully manipulated.

Two could play at that game.

 

“Sorry! I got a little lost.” Aradia laughs. “The sea is wonderful, isn’t it? Such a good idea to meet by it.”

Rose had not intended a meeting here, with its rising risk of distraction or discovery. She had thought her ruse for Aradia flawless, the false dreambubble trail guaranteed to lead her away. A miscalculation then, but not a fatal one.

“It’s beautiful. Do you care to walk with me?”

She does not wait for an answer, but begins to drift along the shoreline. The soft slap of soles on the damp sands tells her Aradia follows.

“Based on LORAF, I believe,” Rose observes. “Although one cannot help but impose.”

The seas in Kanaya’s land had been still and silent, and the sands emerald. It is Rose’s own recollections of light and liquid which draw the surf in swirling swells to shore, and bleach the sediment of its pigment.

“Kanaya is nearby,” Aradia says. “Perhaps we should walk elsewhere. We wouldn’t want to disturb her.”

Rose continues in her path. The footsteps behind her quicken, until a rush of darkness sweeps across her slippers, a tangled tide of night and day fighting for dominance. Only then does she halt, and Aradia’s final slowing steps bring her close enough for Rose to feel breath on skin.

They hold there for a moment, caught at the border of sun and shade, sea and sand. The rising winds tangle their hair and scatter fine grains of quartz around them, but for this stretch, they are still.

 

As promised, Aradia altered little about their home, but she brought with her something unexpected: a pulse, the steady tick from day to night and back again. She kept time, beating a steady 2/4 of light and dark, structuring herself with days and nights.

Rose did not follow the pulse. She slept only erratically, drawing darkness over herself like a quilt to block the sun’s rays, or else burning as a torch against the night. She had already adjusted to her own moments, and she would not take Aradia’s days.

The time was not rejected by all. Aradia drew in a steady stream of visitations, seeking clock or conversation. Away from the house, time was unclear, and they arrived at any moment. Rose learned to greet them, and watched as their numbers dwindled.

 There were moments when the house was occupied, when friends walked the halls and shared their stories. There were moments when Rose walked alone, treading softly through her own candle glow.

And then there were the other moments.

“I presume you take sugar?”

It transpired that tea was a cultural overlap, and it rapidly became a point of ritual for the two girls in those moments they shared alone: to sit together, in twilight, and share a recently boiled pot.

“Thank you.” Rose did not, in fact, take sugar, and as she sipped she forced herself to smile through the unbearable sweetness.

Aradia smiled, and sipped her own cup. When she put it down, Rose expected some inane discussion of their neighbours, as had become their habit.

“Tell me Rose,” Aradia had begun. “Do you see?”

 

“I wish to see them.” Rose speaks softly.

“Rose…” A perfect sigh of reproachful condescension, a hand touching her own, withdrawn sharply. “There is a reason why you don’t.”

Rose grits her teeth against the pretence of omniscience. The Maid of Time knows nothing of her prophecies of doom, yet she will still claim the wisdom of that foresight as her own.

She sets off again, faster now and inshore. Her aim is almost within her grasp. She needs only crest this hilltop and –

The sight of it captivates her.

A tangle of limbs, soaked in blood, two trolls tearing into each other for all they are worth while the sea churns with fury.

The fall of mist draws a memory from her, and a soft rain begins to fall. A drop lands on her cheek, mingling with salt and pain.

“You could stop this.”

 

“Do I see?” Rose echoed. “Since I am patently not blind, I fail to see the pertinence of such a question.”

“Then you are ignorant, or pretending as much,” Aradia said. “Seer. Do you _See_?”

Rose lifted her cup delicately and took a slow sip before responding.

“It is a capability I am known to possess.”

Aradia smiled and leant towards her. “Don’t be ashamed if you can’t. The Game didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual.”

Something about her understanding tone was a knife edge. Aradia constantly seemed to Rose to be instructing, controlling everyone through the aggressive act of advice.

Rose leant towards her, looking deep into those earnest maroon eyes.

“Thank you for your concern,” she told Aradia, leaning almost out of her seat. “But I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Entirely out of her chair, she leant forward the last few centimetres, and kissed the troll girl on the cheek.

She drew the light around her as she left, half-drunk tea still cooling in darkness on the table.

 

Aradia has stepped beside her, and gazes upon the couple without emotion.

She does not respond.

“You could stop this,” Rose repeats, half-turning to her. Even through her tears, she can see Aradia’s smile. “Stop this. You’re their _auspistice_!”

“And you pity them,” Aradia acknowledges. “Rose…”

But from the corner of her eye, Rose sees one of the girls fall. She turns back in time to see the victor departing, the loser left bloodied on the ground.

Rose rushes down the hill towards the ruined girl.

“Go, then.” Aradia smiles softly, and takes once more to the skies, an ink drop of night in the endless sea of radiance.

Rose does not look back.


	3. Diamonds

Across the broad spectrum of fission and reflection, there exists a singular moment of light shared by the occupants of Earth and of Alternia, a point of radiant overlap birthing familiarity anew.

To a troll, it is midnight through the winter’s haze, sister moons scrambled into a uniform glow, drenching frosted ground with a deadly, untouchable beauty. To a human, it is summer’s sunset bleeding out a rainbow onto cloudless indigo, evenstar’s cool release beckoning forth furtive liaisons.

Seasons disparate, but intensity and frequency echoed across cosmos; a cohesive moment of peace and solitude, an unbroken bridge of shared secrecies in which two species retreat, ensconce, contrive.

It is a time Rose knows well.

Once, this was the light by which needles were deployed and lengthy tomes embarked upon, by which the zoologically dubious was contemplated and the psychologically intriguing probed, by which guardians were avoided and distant friends pestered into the night.

Lately, it has marked the conciliation of two cultures, the understanding of new races, and the continuing exchange of custom and ideology.

Now, as she races her own heartbeat down the hillside, it is the shade Rose draws about herself and sweeps towards her wounded beloved.

As she begins her descent, she does not know who she runs towards, which girl lies defeated on the sands. She cannot discern from the fading stains of blue and green whether jade or cerulean has dominated.

It is several long, heart-stopping moments before she is near enough to pick out features, and that moment of identity spins relief and guilt into a cord to draw her ever onwards. A part of her is glad of this outcome, and that disgusts her.

Perhaps as much would be true either way.

But a moment passes, and Rose has arrived. She drops to her knees by her defeated moirail, and, as gentle hands move from wound to wound, twilight rolls over the pair like a bandage.

Eyelids flicker open, and the girl jolts upright into consciousness.

“Th _a_ t _b_ itch!”

 

In spite of – or perhaps because of – everything which had happened, Rose never stopped knitting. In the bubble, the creation of anything permanent had become a novelty, but with silver needles and captchalogued yarn, she could build something no slip in memory would erase. After Aradia’s arrival, it became her habit to sit outside, in thoughts of fresh air, watching the ever-shifting landscape that had become their garden as she wrought reason from a knotted tangle of threads.

It was there that she held her first conversation with Vriska Serket, calling out at the passing troll without ever moving her eyes from her work.

“On Earth, we invented a brilliant contraption to alert people within a dwelling to visitors seeking an audience. You merely need to compress a button located adjacent to the main entrance.”

Vriska stopped, and in her peripheral vision Rose saw her turn to stare.

“We had doorbells on Alternia too,” she said.

Rose smirked. “Yet you have walked out of your way to pass by this residence at least a dozen times by my count, and failed to make use of one. I assure you, its operation is hardly complex. If you seek to converse with my housemate, you need only ring.”

“Who said I was looking for Aradia?”

“Well, if it’s my company you sought, consider your quest complete.”

Vriska didn’t say a word, but in a brief glitter of butterfly wings she was slumped against the wall of the house. Pausing over a dropped stitch, Rose noted a toss of black hair.

“I was just walking. I have plenty of irons in the fire. I didn’t ask to talk to some fussy meddler.”

“My mistake. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to indulge my curiosity.”

Rose did not flinch as Vriska suddenly loomed over her, peering over the back of the chair at Rose’s project.

“What _is_ that?”

“A tea cosy,” Rose explained, pulling the maroon wool into an approximation of the intended shape. “A gift, for Aradia. Would you like anything?”

Vriska swung herself around, perching on the arm of Rose’s chair.

“Like what?”

“I’m sure I could think of something. A scarf perhaps? I have some yarn which would tone well with your outfit.”

“Yours too.” Both still wore the sharp tangerine colour of Light. “Why not use it yourself?”

“One can own only so many knitted items before growing weary of them,” Rose shrugged. “So would you like one?”

“Not a scarf.”

“Then what?”

Vriska dropped suddenly, landing smoothly on the ground, leaning backwards with a smile. The sudden movement caught Rose off-guard, and she looked up, meeting the girl’s eyes.

“You’ll think of something.” Vriska grinned.

That smile, and the stark whiteness of her teeth gave Rose pause. Vriska had slipped into Rose’s daylight without dimming it so much as a shade. The light must have been bothering her. Guilted, Rose quickly imagined a cooler evening glow.

Even as her shoulders relaxed, Vriska rolled her eyes.

“I don’t mind the light.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you uncomfortable on my behalf.”

 

“She _b_ it m _e_!”

Rose’s heart pangs at Vriska’s obvious distress, the accent-impediment which always remerges under pressure. She lays a hand on Vriska’s arm, and it takes a moment for those eight pupils to focus on her.

“Rose?” Vriska sounds dazed.

“I was nearby,” Rose says by way of explanation. “Are you hurt?”

“I’ll be fiiiiiiiine.”

The bubble is a place of protection, and most minor injuries heal near-instantaneously. Vriska’s cuts are already closing, but Rose is less than convinced, especially since Vriska can barely keep her voice steady for eight beats of i.

Vriska moves to sit straighter, but Rose catches her by the shoulders, and a stern look is enough for the troll to throw herself back onto the beach with a sigh. She lifts her tunic to reveal a long gash across her stomach.

“I’m fine to go after her,” she grumbles.

Rose inspects the wound carefully, each touch drawing a rough hiss of pain from her patient.

“The evidence is against you there.”

 

As Rose acquainted herself with the trolls, Vriska seemed to stand out as the one troll who would seek her company even over Aradia’s, draping herself carelessly over whatever happened to be nearby, eightfold eyes transfixed by the growing mass of orange wool.

“Is it mittens?”

The corner of Rose’s mouth quirked upwards, as it always did when Vriska made another guess. “You’ll see.”

“You keep saying that! Why won’t you just tell me what you’re cre _at_ ing?”

Rose frowned and continued to stitch. “Why are you so preoccupied with the number eight?”

Rose marvelled briefly at the daily wonder which was Vriska Serket rolling her eyes. “Because it’s the _b_ est num _b_ er, o _b_ viously!”

Rose ignored the overdramatic failure to substantiate. “There must be some kind of relevance. You can hardly claim it as your lucky number.”

“I _do_ have vision _eight_ -fold, you know!” Vriska tossed her hair. “Only real winners have that!”

“Oh?” Rose prompted. “I hadn’t realised it was so unusual.”

“Only two trolls in history have had it!” Vriska smiled proudly. “Me and my ancestor – the Marquise Spinneret Mindfang.”

Rose was silent for a long moment, letting the quiet click of the needles fill the void. She finished a row of stitches, turned her knitting over, and finally spoke.

“I have heard you use that name yourself.”

“Who else would I want to FLARP as?” Vriska winked, tilting her head dramatically even though Rose’s gaze was elsewhere. “ _B_ esides, my theme isn’t just the number eight. Spiders are the _b_ est!!!”

Remembering her conversations with Kanaya, Rose made a small deduction.

“Your lusus.”

 

“So am I doooooooomed?”

Rose’s cursory examination fails to yield any signs of lasting damage.

“The prognosis is good,” she says, readjusting Vriska’s clothing to cover the rapidly mending injury.

As Rose expected, the troll makes another attempt to get to her feet, and is this time restrained by a touch on the back of the hand. Instead, Vriska settles for propping her hands against her hips.

“You are suffering from severe blood loss and exhaustion,” Rose informs her. “If you don’t rest, you will go into shock.”

She is treated to a vicious glare.

“ _You_ are _b_ ossy and fussy and meddling and you aren’t even supposed to _b_ e here!”

 

At the mention of her lusus, Vriska deflated slightly. “I suppose Fussy-F _a_ ngs told you _a_ ll about it.”

“Not in as much detail as I would have liked,” Rose acknowledged – a truth, if one also hopeful of mollifying her companion’s sudden mood swing. “I am fascinated by the concept – pseudo-parental bonding with childless adults of multigenerous species –“

“Parental???” Vriska interjected.

Rose glanced up, and permitted herself the small smile of elucidation. “It means –“

“I knoooooooow what it meeeeeeeeans!” Vriska drawled. “Lusus aren’t like parents! At least, not like your adult-female.”

“Mother,” Rose corrected.

“I watched your life.”

Rose paused at the assertion, still unused to the lack of privacy her old life had been afforded.

“You may have born witness to some portion of it,” she admitted. “Although your viewing was most likely brief, focussed only on the recent past, and coloured heavily with temporal spoilers.”

“I only _b_ othered with the _b_ est _b_ its! But I watched how you communic _ate_ d with your parent, and it was nothing like a lusus!” Vriska sat up suddenly, the flicking ends of her hair barely visible in the dim light. “Look at the g _a_ me!”

Rose blinked at her. “What aspect are you referring to precisely?”

“Aaaaaaaall of us prototyped with our lusus!” Vriska said. “I only saw one adult-companion-sprite in your session. But the cat – you brought him food, and in return he stayed with you. Th _a_ t’s what a lusus is _supposed_ to _b_ e!”

Rose reflected on this for a moment. Was Jaspers truly the closest she held to a guardian figure? Hardly a promising thought, although still one far more reassuring than what self-prototyping meant for D-

“If I am to accept this hypothesis, I insist upon extending it further,” Rose said quickly. “If my relationship with my sprite mirrors that of a lusus, then you must equally accept that the troll concept of ancestors is loosely equivalent to parents. You must see have centred your life on the Marquise as an unattainable ideal, and you continue to dread her rejection in spite of constant awareness you shall never receive any indication of such!”

In the moment’s silence that followed, Rose was aware that the heat on her own cheeks was mirrored by a dull sweep of cerulean. She had become caught up in the ideas discussed and let her professional demeanour slip, embarrassing them both.

The knitting lay forgotten in her lap.

Vriska hastily got to her feet, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she made for the door.

As she left, she muttered something, and Rose could not discern whether the statement was intended for her hearing, or a private observation made audible by Vriska’s ever-present natural exuberance. Regardless, the words were clear to her, if not their immediate meaning.

“I can’t _b_ elieve we just did th _a_ t without a _pile_!!!”

 

“I’m glad you c _a_ me.”

Vriska’s admission is at odds with her petulant expression, and Rose cannot help but meet her glare with a tender smile.

“I sincerely doubt that this climate will assist your recovery,” she says, although she knows that this too will be designated ‘fussing.’ “If you would permit me...?”

The world melts easily around them. The damp sands fade away, until Vriska is stretched across a warm grassy hilltop beneath an early evening sky. Faintly glittering stars stretch to the horizon, unbroken by any nearby memories to compete with them.

“Better?” Rose asks.

 

Enquiries were made. A housemate, consulted. A backstory, revealed. An understanding, reached – perhaps more easily than Rose would have cared to confess.

By Rose’s count, Aradia had slept three times since Vriska’s last visit. The third time the sky outside began to darken, Rose made her choice and, bag thrown over her shoulder, ventured carefully forth into the twilight.

Vriska’s hive was nearby, perched precariously on a clifftop, towering steeples casting an eerie silhouette against the gray half-light.

The front door was ajar. As Rose stepped warily over the threshold, she heard a hitched sob from inside.

“Vriska, is that you?” she asked. Receiving no response, she continued onwards. The door at the end of the hallway had been thrown open, so hard the wall had dented. And behind it –

Vriska sat at a table, slumped against the wood in a perfect portrayal of hopelessness. If she heard Rose’s intrusion, she showed no sign of it. It was only when Rose drew close to her that she heard words among the fractured breaths, muffled by the wall of wood and hair.

“Sh _e_ l _e_ ft m _e_...”

Rose did not know of whom she spoke. On reflection, she knew almost nothing of the girl lying distraught before her – and what little she had been told warned her away. Yet, still, she wanted to know more.

“Who?” she asked, touching the troll lightly on the arm.

Her curiosity was rewarded with a sudden flurry of movement, which ended with Rose bemused to discover Vriska’s head pressed against her chest, arms holding her tightly in place – and her own returning the embrace.

“Kan _a_ ya,” Vriska muttered against Rose’s top. “She went last night. She...”

“Go after her.” The words were out of Rose’s mouth before she had even considered the options, advice she normally would have deliberated over brought forth instantly by Vriska’s distress. “Tell her how you feel about her. Sometimes, there is no point in feigning detachment. If she means this much to you, she should know.”

Vriska pulled back just enough to look up at Rose, but did not release her.

“Go!” Rose repeated.

“ _B_ ut – w _ait_ – you –“

Rose smiled. “I’ll still be here when you get back. You know where to find me.”

Vriska jumped to her feet and swept Rose into a real hug. Rose counted eight beats in her arms before she was let go with a kiss on the cheek, and Vriska soared out the door.

Rose paused and retrieved her project from her bag before she departed, leaving the bright orange spider on the table for Vriska’s return.

 

“I suppoooooooose.”

As Vriska stretches herself out beneath the stars, Rose settles besides her on the grass with legs crossed and hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Relax!” Vriska tells her, rolling her eyes. When Rose fails to do so, she reaches up and pulls the girl down. Rose falls against her with a gasp of surprise, which turns into an unwilling giggle as she tries unsuccessfully to escape Vriska’s hold and regain her poise.

“Oh no, Miss Meddle! If I’m stuck here, _you’re_ stuck with me!”

Rose relents, and accepts the hug, collapsing against her moirail’s shoulder with a theatrical sigh that echoes out into the eternal dusk.

“I expected nothing less.”


	4. Hearts

The quality of beauty is often considered to be entirely subjective, but that is not necessarily true. There exist some sights so universally breath-taking that their brilliance may be objectively acknowledged, although these are few and far between. But as yet, none who have looked upon this garden have been anything short of amazed.

 Flowers of every hue mingle here, the most memorable specimens of two cultures rippling out around the house in ever-changing waves. It is the nature of their very existence that each passerby cannot help but leave as much as they take, but the garden itself is continuous, tended by all and owned by none.

A girl picks her way along the path which is today long and gently winding, trailing verdancy and rainbow blossoms in her wake. Flowers turn towards her as she passes, seeking out the luminosity in which she cloaks herself, and as she pauses to pluck a bloom it bursts open beneath her radiant touch.

She cannot help but smile at the sight. She is content, and her destination is now visible; through the branches of a tree, she looks upon the most striking sight of all – a girl who stares out at the world with arresting curiosity.

“Miss Maryam?”

Her approach has been noticed, the girl rises from her seat.

“Miss Lalonde.” Kanaya greets the object of her affections with a curtsey, and offers her the rose. “Would you care to walk with me?”

Rose’s smile is blinding.

“But of course.”

 

Once the decision had been made, it was Vriska who led the way, although she had grumbled through the entire walk. She rang the doorbell with a scowl, but her brow uncreased when the door was opened by Rose, with an open smile Kanaya had never seen her wear before.

“Vriska,” she greeted, brightly – then, after a moment’s pause, “Miss Maryam.”

“Rose.” Kanaya glanced at the ground, marvelling at her own infinite capacity for awkwardness. “We, ah –”

“We have to talk to the ghost bitch,” Vriska declared, blunt as ever.

Rose fixed her with a gentle glare. “I would prefer...”

“I know, I _know_.” Vriska clasped Rose’s hands, bringing them up between their chests, and the display of moirallegiance was so brazen Kanaya could not help but stare.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Vriska suggested, and Rose’s mouth quirked. “And she _is_ a bitch.”

Rose’s smile returned in full, and she carefully untangled her hands before turning back to Kanaya.

“Follow me,” she asked, and said no more until they reached Aradia’s door – but before knocking, Rose reached out and touched Vriska’s sleeve.

“Find me,” she said quietly.

Vriska’s answering nod held a solemnity Kanaya had never suspected she possessed.

Rose knocked once, carefully, and less than a second had passed before Aradia opened the door, her gaze meeting Rose’s for barely a moment.

It was enough; Kanaya understood. She knew what desire looked like.

 

They link arms, and stroll at a leisurely pace. There is no fixed destination, nor would there be if such a thing were possible here. They wish only to enjoy one another’s company.

“Thank you for this.” Rose twirls the bloom between her fingers. “I trust you are aware of its symbolism?”

“You’ve told me it’s called a rose,” Kanaya admits. “Does it hold further meaning?”

“Almost all plants do,” Rose explains. “Or they did, on Earth. The giving of a red rose was one of the most widely recognised gestures in my culture.”

She finishes there, and Kanaya must ask: “And what meaning did it hold?”

Rose smiles. “Flushed feelings. Paler colours – white or yellow – would be associated with close friendship.”

Kanaya thinks she understands. “Moirallegiance?”

“Another echo of Alternia.”

Rose holds the rose loosely, and Kanaya is caught by the urge to reach out for it, perhaps tuck it in Rose’s hair – but before she does so, Rose pulls her hand away, and hides the flower in the pocket of her dress.

 

Aradia was eager to help, as she always seemed to be.

“I’ve never really auspisticised before,” she admitted. “But I’ll do my best! I hope the three of us can work things out.”

She glanced somewhat uncertainly at Vriska, who had been uncharacteristically silent, fidgeting so much it set Kanaya’s teeth on edge.

“Perhaps I should talk to you separately?” Aradia suggested.

Vriska was through the door before she had even finished speaking, flying down the corridor at full speed. As Kanaya rose to close the door after her, she heard a plaintive echo: “She’s our _auspistice_!”

Aradia appeared unfazed by all this drama – probably a good sign, Kanaya reflected. She met Kanaya’s eyes, and asked, “how do you feel about her?”

Kanaya floundered. She felt many things for Vriska Serket, but she did not have the words to tell most of them. More importantly, she was not certain she wanted Aradia to know the truth. She glanced down demurely, opened her mouth to speak –

“Feel free to tell me anything.”

Aradia’s words made Kanaya look up again sharply. Her expression was neutral, but her faze unfaltering, and Kanaya reminded herself: they were in a quadrant now. This relationship would not work without full disclosure.

“She is infuriating,” Kanaya responded. “She is arrogant, rude and hyperbolic, and when I am around her I can’t stand it, I want to scream. But just as I think I’m going to strangle her I remember how desperate she is and I pity her so much that my chest aches just looking at her.”

There was silence for a moment, and Kanaya was certain her words had scared Aradia off for good, but the girl just nodded.

“And what exactly do you pity the most?”

They talked it through to the end, and Kanaya felt herself lighten as she shared all of her hidden thoughts. If she had known it would feel like that, she would have suggested auspisticing long before.

“I believe that’s enough for now,” Aradia finished. “I’m sure Rose will send Vriska in when they are done.”

Kanaya paused in the doorway. “You and Rose...?”

“Yes?”

“I have not spoken to either of you recently. What’s your relationship?”

Aradia stiffened. “We live together.”

“Nothing more?”

Aradia shook her head.

As Kanaya left the house, she realised why maintaining an auspistice was considered so difficult. After all that honestly, it was hard to hear such an obvious lie.

 

It occurs to Kanaya they have not yet discussed her own gift.

“What about purple?” she asks.

Rose gives no sign of having heard. She is staring off into the distance, an intent observer of nothing in particular, and her expression is blank.

“Rose?” Kanaya asks. The girl starts slightly.

“My apologies,” she says with a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t recall what purple roses symbolise. Perhaps nothing in particular.”

“It reminded me of you.” Kanaya’s eyes are on her, but Rose sweeps her gaze across the ground, combing through the tangled flora.

“Oh!” Rose smiles at a small sprout of green, and Kanaya follows her towards it. Rose bends to pick some leaves and crushes them beneath her fingers, releasing the scent.

“Rosemary,” she breathes. “Curious, isn’t it – it holds your name as much as mine.”

She places the leaves in her mouth, and smiles.

“Try some,” she suggests. “I assure you, it isn’t poisonous.”

Kanaya picks a sprig herself. The herb is soft against her tongue, but the taste is slightly bitter. Before she can adjust, the leaves melt away to nothing, their neglected memory already fading.

 

Time passed, in that strange way it had here which left no lasting imprint. Kanaya continued to visit her auspistice, and each time she did she pitied Vriska less and resented Aradia more.

But that resentment was not all ashen.

As Kanaya locked her red feelings for Vriska away – built a wall around them and starved them until it was only natural they faded into nothing – a second prisoner, one she had long thought dead, awoke. In the dead of night, doubts broke loose, and stole through her mind.

She tried to tell herself that it was all imagined – that they had never shared more than curiosity and daydreams, that they had barely spoken in months, that it was all forgotten. Rose and Aradia held a certainty between them, the same confidence Rose shared with Vriska, and what could that be but serendipity? But such notions are not so easily dismissed, and deep inside her dreams, the faintest of hopes continued to glow.

It was the strangest thing, the way she convinced herself of the impossible.

She wished she could just ask someone – but who? Aradia would not be drawn on the subject, and Vriska could not be trusted. That left only Rose. Rose, who could unerringly extract her poise with a surgeon’s tongue and leave her a fumbling wreck.

Rose, who stood before her.

“Miss Lalonde,” she acknowledged – always with that strange formality Kanaya could not quite comprehend, an Earth ritual which only bore her meaning through the faint smile in Rose’s eyes.

“Miss Maryam,” Rose replied. “Are your sessions proceeding smoothly?”

“Aradia is more than competent as an auspistice.” Something Rose undoubtedly knew already, so why ask? Whatever Rose sought in her response, she gave no sign she had found it, save for that involuntary pause at Aradia’s name.

“I was about to visit the garden.”

“Aradia mentioned you take tea there sometimes.”

“Did she?”

It was barely anything – an eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch, an echo of disbelief – but truth hit Kanaya like desert lightning.

She could not help but smile.

“Rose. Would you care to take a walk with me?”

 

Rose continues to stare at the rosemary, and Kanaya knows something is troubling her.

“Is everything alright?” she asks. “You seem distracted.”

“I am perfectly well.” But Rose still looks down, and Kanaya takes her hand.

“You know I care a great deal about you.”

When Rose meets her eyes, Kanaya is sure she glows with a light too great to be merely reflected; it is her element, and she wears it well.

“And I care about you.”

Their fingers play against each other, and for a moment Kanaya thinks they might move closer – but instead they turn and continue walking, side by side under unseen sun.


End file.
